A Bear Hunt that Failed. 
They wanted some meat at the ranch and 
wanted it bad, so Bob and I appointed ourselves 
a committee to supply the want. 
In your mind’s eye, then, behold us climbing 
up the mountains out of the valley of the South 
Boise, in Idaho, one bright October day in the 
eighties. As we clambered on, up and up, we 
looked back at as fine a view as eye could wish 
to rest on. The silvery river, so far beneath us, 
twisted and turned amid the scattered groves 
of quaking asp, cottonwood, pines and firs. Now 
it showed plainly as it wound its devious way 
over the shining gravelly reaches; anon it dis¬ 
appeared amid the green trees and bushes that 
in places grew so near the bank that the 
branches overhung the swiftly moving flood. 
Here and there snowy patches showed where 
the crystal tide was dashed against hidden rocks, 
turning the dark flood into foam. 
As we ascended we left behind the groves of 
pine, fir and quaking asp and came out on the 
bare hillside from which we looked across the 
valley, over the foothills we had surmounted, 
at the distant hills and mountains stretching 
away into the distance on the other side. Here 
we stopped long enough for me to set up my 
camera and make some views, which, though 
better than no record, serve but poorly to show 
the grandeur of the view. Packing up again 
. we wound our way up the steep mountainside 
. until on the summit we looked down upon an¬ 
other country, much wilder and more rugged. 
. Carefully picking our way down the steep hill¬ 
side we at last reached a spot where camp was 
made. The little tent was pitched beneath the 
^ shade of a giant pine, just at the edge of the 
forest that here was quite dense, but fronting 
a nice open glade. The horses stood about 
patiently waiting to have their saddles taken 
off and the hobbles put on, and when this was 
done our four-footed friends began reveling in 
an abundance of fine bunch grass. 
How we got all the deer we wanted is an- 
' other story .and besides, this was started as a 
bear story, not a deer hunting tale. It is enough 
’ to . say that we loaded the horses and walked 
■ home.. 
As we traveled about over the hills and 
through the draws and canons, bear sign was 
' constantly seen. Some of the footprints were 
■ .very large. Bob swore he found one lot of 
.tra.cks in which the foot marks of the hind feet 
were so large. that his hat — a broad-brimmed 
Western sombrero — would not cover one. Al¬ 
though we saw lots of tracks and used to come 
upon sign that, was very fresh, much to our 
disgust we never saw the bear. This was espe¬ 
cially disappointing to me. for be it known I 
.was “loaded for bear.” I had spent much time 
in. the West, had hunted in Colorado, Utah, 
Montana and Idaho, to say nothing of the plains 
in the buffalo days, and though often in bear 
country and where they were supposed to be, or 
ought to be, it always happened that just at 
that time they were somewhere else. 
When this particular trip had been planned it 
had been all figured out that I was about due 
for a bear and preparations had been made ac¬ 
cordingly. A special 14-pound single shot .45 
rifle had been ordered, shooting 125 grains of 
powder and a special model express bullet, 
moulds for which had also been made to order. 
The lamented William Lyman, now long gone 
to the happy hunting grounds, had taken pains 
to sight and test the gun, taking a special in¬ 
terest in the matter for friendship’s sake. Some 
extra fine rifle powder vvas imported and weeks 
were spent in getting the shells loaded properly, 
so that the only thing that was needed to com¬ 
plete the happy combination was the bear. We 
were not particular what kind of a bear it was, 
either. Bob’s big one, that made the bushel 
FRANK F. FRISBIE—“PRAIRIE DOG.” 
basket tracks, was preferred, but any little old 
bear would be gratefully accepted. 
Two or three days had been spent very profit¬ 
ably as far as meat was concerned,’and we were 
about ready to return to the ranch. We deter¬ 
mined, however, to have one more good round¬ 
up with the mule deer before quitting, and 
one morning before it was fairly light, we were 
breasting the steep hillside back of our camp 
bound for the ridge beyond. When we were 
fairly on its crest we separated. Bob went down 
a canon to the right and it was not long before 
his .45.70 began to talk, and two deer fell to 
one shot. I kept along the ridge and also got 
a shot, but did not do so well as Bob. I con¬ 
tinued along the mountainside until about 9 
o’clock, when I concluded it was time to rest, 
and after sitting an hour or so took the back 
trail toward camp. As I walked along I jumped 
a deer which ran down the mountainside through 
the bush and timber; that is, I supposed it was 
a deer. I saw nothing of it; I only heard a 
noise in the thick brush. Thinking that possibly 
I might get a shot in some open spot that the 
deer might cross, I entered the timber and ran 
as fast as down timber, thick brush and the de¬ 
cline would permit. When about half way down 
to the draw or gulch that separated the moun¬ 
tain I was on from the next ridge, I came to 
some burned timber where the logs lay very 
thick on the ground. Mounting one of the 
largest—at the butt probably three feet from the 
ground and which ran along the hillside for 
twenty-five feet or more before the top canie 
in contact with the ground—I climbed upon it 
to stand, as I could look across the gulch to 
the other side and had a reasonable chance of 
a shot. There was a great crashing of bushes 
and snapping of brush down in the gulch, and 
presently a very decided “woof, woof” sounded 
from below. As this was much like the snort 
an old buck often makes when he cannot see 
an object that has disturbed him or get its wind, 
the deer supposition was still entertained. A 
few moments more of waiting and of thrash¬ 
ing about in the bush by some animal, and then 
suddenly in a small bare spot on the opposite 
hillside appeared a large brown bear. 
Was I surprised? Well, just a little, but my 
surprise was not overpowering, and a .45 ex¬ 
press bullet was sent over the intervening 300 
yards as quickly as aim could be taken and 125 
grains of powder could propel it. The only re¬ 
sult discernible was to cause bruin to dig his 
toes into the steep slope in a scramble to get 
over the next ridge. Two more shots were 
sent after the fleeing bear, but they did not stop 
him, and just as he reached the distant ridge a 
bullet struck between his hind legs and the dust 
flew as the bear disappeared. ■ 
I stepped off the log and gathered up my 
empty shells, remarking to myself quite audibly, 
“Old fellow. I’ll just camp on your trail until 
I get you,” when just off to the right was heard 
more brush smashing, and out walked another 
bear as large as the first. It looked as if I had 
found a colony at last. The little bare spot in 
which this bear appeared was 200 or 250 yards 
away and on the same side of the mountain with 
me. “Bang!” went the express and jump went 
the bear into the brush. Now it would be about 
as easy to see through a brick wall as to see 
through the thick timber and brush between me 
and the open spot, hut the crashing in the brush 
told which way the bear was moving; it was 
coming as- straight for me as if I had a string 
on it. Now the single shot rifle was all right 
for shooting at a target or anything else where 
I could take my time, but for quick work in a 
tight dorner it was not quite the thing. First, 
because I had to get a cartridge out of my belt 
and into the gun each time; second, because the 
extreme length of the, 125 grain shell made it 
impossible for the extractor to throw the shell 
clear of the gun, and I had to elevate the muzzle 
so as to have the shell go clear. This made 
shooting a little slow. I took three cartridges 
out of my belt and held them in my left hand 
to save all the time possible, and still the bushes 
snapped and cracked. It occurred to me that 
